(Last verse to be sung with great feeling.)

Now, I don’t want to drink tea with the boy, or girl either, who cannot appreciate this soul-stirring song; but for him or her who can love it, I have two hands to hold out to shake.

. . . . . .

Just one day, and only one, during all their delightful cruises in the good little yacht Grebe were our heroes and heroines in real danger.

There is no gainsaying the fact that a summer storm in the Channel is a very ugly one while it lasts.

Captain Antonio, lured by the loveliness of the June day, had put further out to sea than usual on this cruise, and the children were in the seventh heaven of delight. There had just been wind enough blowing from the south-west to carry the vessel along at probably seven knots an hour.

It was a beam wind, of course, and would be so on the other tack returning.

“If we put about now, dearies,” said Antonio, “we’ll just get home in beautiful time, and before the red sun dips behind the western waves.”

A few minutes after, however, he found himself mistaken. Dark clouds rose rapidly up in the west and soon obscured the sun.

Both the Dane and Antonio knew the meaning of this, and the latter gave instant orders to set a storm-jib, and close reef the mainsail.

The girls were sent below in charge of Barclay, but Davie Drake put on an oilskin that he owned, and a yellow sou’-wester, and expressed his desire to stay on deck and see “the fun,” as he called it.

In ten minutes more the squall was on them in all its force. It was furious, terrible. Nothing could withstand it. The sheets were therefore loosened, the topsail lowered, and they commenced to scud before the wind.

Hatches were put close on, for the great green seas raced the Grebe and threatened every moment to poop her, while the salt spray dashed on board in clouds.

The force of this first squall was soon broken however, but around our shores, a squall of this kind is generally, as Antonio knew, followed by a gale. So it would be in this case, for the glass had gone down, down, down, and the column of mercury was still cup-shaped at top.

The gale too that sprang up and raised the seas higher and higher had a little bit of northerly in it, so that it would have been almost impossible to make for an English port.

“What do you advise, Petersen?” asked the captain, fixing him with his wonderful glass eye.

“There’s only one thing to do, sir, and that is to run for Dieppe, in France.”

“My own idea precisely.”

“One hundred and eighty miles, though,” he added. “The children will be safe, unless worse happens; but I grieve to think of the anxiety of their parents.”

“Humph!” grunted Petersen, “a little grief does gentlefolks good.”

I fear Petersen did not love gentlefolks, as he called them.

Antonio scowled a little, but as Petersen did not look up, the scowl was wasted.

“Take the tiller, Pandoo, till I run down below.”

He entered the cuddy looking very happy and pleased, though this was only good acting. There was indeed a great fear at his heart that none of them should ever reach Dieppe alive. He entered, rubbing his hands and smiling.

“Well, dearies all, are you enjoying your little selves?”

They were indeed. They were as merry as May bees.

“Oh,” said little Teenie delightedly, “it is so nicee—nicee. Just puts me in mind of our boats far away at sea, or a swing under the apple-trees at home.”

“We’re all happy, sir,” said Maud and Phœbe both.

“Will we soon be in?” said bold young Barclay.

“Oh, dearie, no, we’re going before the wind right away to bonnie France.”

“Hurrah!” cried Barclay; “that is awfully jolly.”

Then his face fell somewhat.

“What will dear mother think, though?”

“It will only be for one night, my lad. As soon as we reach Dieppe we’ll telegraph, you know.”

Then away to a cupboard walked or rather staggered the weird wee man. First he lit the big swing-lamp, for already gloaming was falling over the sea.

As he lit the lamp, Antonio chanted or sang in his sweetest tones:

The cat Muffie did not seem to mind the wild storm now raging and rushing the sloop before it, with many a dull thud that shook her from stem to stern.

Pussy was singing herself to sleep, with half-closed eyes that refused to keep awake.

Having lit the lamp, Antonio put the fiddles[4] on the table, and over this spread the table-cloth.

In the nests thus formed, and in front of each child, he placed a handful of nuts and apples.

Then he said, “Good-bye, dearies. Laugh and be happy. By-and-by I’ll be down to play and sing to you.”

“Oh,” cried Teenie, “that will be nice!”

She clapped her hands, and so did the others.

. . . . . .

There was still light enough on deck to see well around one; but Pandoo now, at his master’s command, lit a huge hurricane lantern, and hoisted it to the masthead.

The faithful fellow had discarded his turban, and was fain to encase himself in an oilskin coat and wear a big sou’-wester, in which costume, it must be confessed, his brown but handsome face did not show out to any great advantage.

Meanwhile the wind seemed to increase. Above the howling of it, however, could now and then be heard the shrieks of the sea-birds. “Good-night! Good-night!” they seemed to cry—“we’re away, away—away—ay!”

Nothing could daunt Antonio.

His heart was resilient to a degree, and when the wind blew the highest, he sang. He did even now, though only a verse or two:

CHAPTER VII

“YES, YES,” SHE WEPT, “ON A FEARFUL NIGHT LIKE THIS THEY WERE ALL DROWNED”

Just as gloaming was darkling into night, the Dane himself being at the wheel, he mistook some order Captain Antonio gave, for the storm was roaring loud and high. The little vessel had gone off somewhat, and instead of going hard a-port, he hove the helm the other way. In another moment the mainsail was aback and the danger extreme. Halliards were neatly let go however, and by Antonio himself and Pandoo everything was done for the safety of the vessel. But not before the saucy Grebe had gone stem on into an enormous wave. For a few moments indeed it seemed as if she were plunging beneath the waves entirely. She shook herself free at last, but had shipped tons and tons of green water.

This came rolling aft, carrying Pandoo, Antonio, and poor Davie Drake before it, as a mill-lead might carry corks away.

They grasped the grating abaft the binnacle for life or death, and this saved them from being washed overboard.

But they were all more or less badly bruised, although when the danger was once over, and the vessel again on the scud, they all laughed heartily at the mishap.

Davie Drake was bold. All young sailors are, simply because they do not know their danger. Antonio and Pandoo had crossed too many wild seas in the Indian Ocean and around the Capes, and encountered too many hurricanes and tornadoes, to be afraid of the chops of the Channel.

Before sunset they had come across several barques and brigs, that seemed in a worse plight than even they were.

Just at darkling they noticed the coloured lights of a steamer coming hand and hand up astern.

This big vessel was soon close aboard of them to windward, and a lusty voice shouted—

“Whither away?”

“Dieppe.” This was the answer shrieked through Antonio’s speaking trumpet.

“Want any assistance?” cried the voice from the steamer.

“Many thanks, no. We’re all square now.”

And away went the steamer, and night swallowed her up.

After the men on deck had wrung their clothes and put them on again, Antonio went quietly below to see how the children were getting on.

Happy childhood, that knows nought of sorrow and danger.

“Oh, we’ve had such fun,” cried Maud and Phœbe; “when the ship kicked, we were all thrown in a heap on the floor, but we were not hurt; only, our legs and arms were all so mixed up that we couldn’t tell whose was who’s. And then, Captain Antonio, when we tried to get up we all tumbled down again, so we just lay still for a long, long time. Wasn’t it funny?”

Teenie had said nothing, she was looking very demure.

“Well, dearie, what have you to say?”

The little fisher lass looked up in his face with a half-serious smile.

“Is it all right now?” she said. “Barclay Stuart there, and Miss Maud, and Phœbe are only land folk; but I know—oh, I know.”

“Well, dearie, what do you know?”

“We were taken aback.”

Antonio himself was rather taken aback to hear such wisdom from the lips of this pretty wee mite of a fisher lass.

“Yes, we were taken aback, and it was touch and go. Wonder we didn’t go down by the stern.”

Antonio laughed, and patted her on the head.

“We are all right now, little one,” he said, “and I’ll be on deck all night. Yes, I’ll come down to supper, and maybe sing you a song. Be good now.”

“Oh yes, I’ll be good,” said Teenie, “just frightfully good, but——”

“Well, dearie?”

“I’ll keep my weather eye lifting.”

. . . . . .

There certainly was danger on the deep to-night.

These lines are by Burns, and are descriptive of a storm on shore; yet they fall far short of depicting the scene around the seemingly doomed sloop Grebe. About an hour after, Antonio once more went on deck.

The thunder did indeed bellow, and the lightning was so incessant, that the little craft appeared sailing through a sea of fire. The waves too had risen, and were now houses high. On top of one of these the Grebe quivered from stem to stern, like a creature in fear and agony. She almost hesitated to take the awful plunges into the trough between the waves. Once down the waves dashed high over her, and for a moment or two the sails were all a-shiver.

Antonio himself took a trick at the wheel, that the Dane might go below for supper and refreshment. In Antonio’s hands the craft behaved better, and seemed to feel the master-touch.

In an hour’s time Peterson came back.

Pandoo had already managed to relight the fire, and was busy cooking a delightful little supper for his master and the children.

Davie Drake, wet as he was, refused to go below. He was brave, this boy, without doubt; but let me whisper, reader—he was also affected by the motion. None of the girls were, nor was Barclay himself.

It was nearly nine by the clock, or two bells in the first watch, before Antonio got below.

But, considering everything, that really was a cosy little supper. Of course there were times when everybody had to let their plates lie in the fiddle-nests, that they might hold on fast to the table.

While the children were still enjoying their fruit, Antonio got out his guitar. The weird little man would have gone nowhere on earth without his guitar. And now its sweet, sad tones were heard high above the howling of the wind and the roar of the merciless waves.

It was sea songs he sang to-night, and the seas that beat against the vessel’s side like muffled drums, formed a terrible but appropriate accompaniment.

It was a strange scene that, down below in the Grebe’s cabin on this night of storm and tempest. The weird wee man, with that uncanny eye of his, that seemed to transfix the skylight as he sat on the locker; the eager face of the handsome boy Barclay and the three wee girls listening so intently, as if afraid to lose a single note.

Somehow or other, little Teenie’s tears were falling.

One farewell sigh breathed over the strings, and the music stopped. Antonio laid down the instrument and beckoned Teenie towards him.

“Why does dearie cry?”

She buried her bonnie face on his shoulder now and sobbed—

“Because—because,” she replied, “poor uncle was dlowned and all in the boat—last—year. Oh, I—loved poor unkie. And—and——”

“And my singing and the roar of the waves brought back the recollection—eh, dearie?”

“Yes—yes,” she wept, “on a fearful night they were all dlowned.”

Antonio petted and soothed her, till she fell fast asleep. Then he placed her and Maud in his own bunk, put Phœbe to bed on the little sofa, while, rolled in rugs, Barclay turned in on the locker.

Antonio lowered the lamp that swung from the roof. Then he once more took up his guitar; that which he played now was a strange Indian lullaby, plaintive, sweet, and low.

It had the desired effect, and soon those innocent children were lulled to dreamless slumber.

Then the little brown captain scrambled on deck once more.

The storm still raged on unabatedly; there was not a star to be seen. All around the dark horizon seemed close aboard of them, and nothing was visible save the white caps of the wind-tossed waves.

Antonio found that poor young Davie Drake had gone to sleep forward with his head on a coil of ropes; but Pandoo had covered him entirely up with a tarpaulin.

All that night long, the Grebe went scudding on before the gale; but when daylight appeared, grey and uncertain, the clouds began to lift in the west, and by-and-by a red saturnine light in the cloudland of the east showed that the sun had already risen.

And lo! land was in sight.

Only like a cloud as yet, far away on the eastern horizon.

So on and on flew the saucy Grebe, and hope, that had almost sank in the breasts of the three men on deck, began to rise.

In two hours more the vessel was nearly abreast of Dieppe.

But worse was to follow. At sea, there is nothing certain except the unexpected.

A squall was seen bearing down on them, of greater violence than any they had yet encountered.

Petersen was doing his trick at the wheel. Pandoo and Antonio stood holding on by the stays, when suddenly that awful black squall struck the vessel. For a few seconds she reeled and staggered like a stricken deer.

Luckily axes were on deck.

“Quick, Pandoo, quick,” shouted Antonio. “Get the bight of a rope round you, fasten one end to a belaying-pin, and mount the bulwark to cut through the shrouds while I cut the mast.”

Pandoo, with all the agility of a panther, did as he was bid.

But none too soon.

“Now,” cried the captain, “strike when I give the order.

“Away, aloft.”

Pandoo, secure now from falling overboard, mounted the bulwark.

Antonio, also fastened by a rope to the little capstan, stood by to hack the mast.

It was a pretty bit of seamanship, but would it succeed?

CHAPTER VIII

AT THE MERCY OF THE WAVES

Three shrouds are severed. The mast wavers, staggers, and finally goes down by the board, smashing in its fall the starboard bulwarks. Down leaps Pandoo now, and throwing the bight of the rope off over his head, lays lustily on at the other shrouds, and soon the mast, which was acting as a battering-ram, and might easily have stove the little craft, was now free, and floated away to windward.

The vessel had slowly righted; but deprived of all sail save the storm-jib, she was but a mere rolling log in the billowy ocean.

The position of the vessel was now dangerous in the extreme.

And yet in the midst of all the danger something had occurred which caused both the captain and trusty Pandoo to laugh most heartily.

“Oh, look—look, sah, look,” cried Pandoo, pointing aft with his brown hand.

Antonio did look, and lo! there on the weather side of the wheel, holding the spokes as naturally as any old sailor could have done, stood Teenie, the wee fisher lassie, with her short red frock, bare feet, and hair floating free on the wind.

A most beautiful picture she looked, as contrasted with the stern-set features and form of the sturdy Dane.

But even he could not help smiling.

Antonio ran aft.

“O my dearie, dearie,” he cried, “you must go below.”

Her red lips parted in a bonnie smile, while her blue eyes danced with fun and merriment.

“Oh,” she answered, “it is nothing. I only came up to help poor Pete. I often and often steer my daddy’s boat.”

Antonio stooped down and kissed her hair, then led her gently below.

Here he found Barclay busy restoring things to order. They had been in a state of chaos, but no one was hurt.

Not even Muffie the honest cat, who was sitting on the top of the table singing, and apparently as happy as a viking of old.

. . . . . .

The danger of broaching to was now very great, and it took a load off the little captain’s mind when he at last discovered a French tug-boat bearing down to their assistance.

In half-an-hour more they were safe and sound in Dieppe harbour.

No sooner had Antonio landed the girls and seen them safely to a good hotel under Pandoo’s charge, than he hastened to cable to Fisherton.

What a relief these cablegrams were to Parson Grahame, Mrs. Stuart, and Teenie’s father I need hardly say. Teenie’s father—Norton by name—was a simple, but sturdy fisherman. He and his wife had knelt down before retiring, and prayed earnestly for the safety of the Grebe.

“They are in Thy hands, O Father in heaven. Thou who canst hold the ocean in the hollow of Thy hand, will protect and save the Grebe, and watch over the life of our little Teenie. Have we not always trusted Thee, our Heavenly Father, and Thou hast never deserted us? Nor wilt Thou now, for our Saviour’s sake. Amen! and Amen!”

Then they arose from their knees, happy and trusting, even cheerful.

“Shall we sing a hymn, Peter?”

“Ay! that we will. You begin it, lass. You sings like an angel. I’ve but a poor voice, hoarse with roarin’ high above the stormy wind.”

“Ay, Peter, ay.”

The grey-haired old body chose that loveliest hymn that e’er was penned, and as she came to the most beautiful of all the verses in it, for just a moment her voice broke and trembled, and the tears came dropping from her eyes.

But Parson Grahame had gone to Mrs. Stuart’s house to comfort her.

All comfort seemed useless. She hardly ever seated herself, but paced the room, up and down, up and down, all the livelong night, and till morn dawned bleak and grey over the bleak and stormy ocean.

“Something tells me they are safe,” said the good parson.

But she only wrung her hands.

The cablegram came at last by special messenger.

Mrs. Stuart dared not open it. She stood like a ghost in front of Mr. Grahame as he tore it open. Weary, grey, and haggard she was, but strangely enough, when she heard the joyful tidings of the safety of the Grebe she fainted dead away.

When she recovered she cried a little, then happiness was restored.

. . . . . .

. . . . . .

Antonio made up his mind to give the children what the Yankees call a real good time of it while the damages to the Grebe were being repaired and a new, strong mast stepped.

The men hurried on with their work, and were finished therewith in a few days.

There wasn’t a show nor a play in the place that Antonio did not take the children to. He had bought a dress for little Teenie, and boots and shoes, with all of which she was immensely taken, and pleased.

“I’se a lady now,” she said, smiling her prettiest as she surveyed herself in the glass.

Ah! she did not know yet that it takes more than dress to make a lady.

Barclay Stuart looked at her with real admiration; but I think the boy after all would have preferred to have seen her on the sandy beach at Fisherton, in her bare feet, and with basket and fishing bag, ready to accompany him to the foot of the wild cliffs.

The Grebe was ready for sea once more, and the children’s holiday, which had really in one way been idyllic, was at an end.

Softly blew the southern wind, and light and gentle were the sparkling wavelets as the sails of the Grebe were once more shaken out, and she went dancing and curtseying over the sea, bound for the shores of bonnie Devon.

One long day and night at sea—a happy day and night the children were never likely to forget—and they once more made Fisherton Bay and its tiny pier.

And happy, too, was the meeting ’twixt the parents and the lost children! I can’t describe that.

“Oh,” said old Norton, “I knew they would be safe, because somehow He"—Norton’s finger pointed to the blue sky—“He always hears our prayers like, that is, mother’s and mine.”

But the children had many more cruises in the Grebe after this, though they did not go quite so far to sea.

Their parents had the greatest faith in Antonio, and in Pandoo also.

Only somehow no one seemed to like or trust Petersen the Dane. His brows were always lowered. He appeared to shun conversation, and, as I said before, he never looked any one in the face.

Yet was he a brave and truly excellent sailor.

Sometimes Antonio dined at Parson Grahame’s house, and the good man was astonished at the amount of the captain’s knowledge, of not only the arts and sciences, especially electricity, but of astronomy also.

Grahame could have sat and listened to his conversation for a week and not felt tired. It must be confessed, however, that he would have listened with more pleasure had it not been for that uncanny eye of Antonio’s.

Often while talking he would put his fingers over it, as if quite conscious of the disagreeable effect it had on those who beheld it.

Time rolled on.

Antonio seemed to have no other desire save that of studying and preparing, as he told young Drake and Barclay, for a long, long voyage to sea.

Both boys had made great progress in their knowledge of seamanship, and before mellow autumn came on they could not only splice, steer, reef a topsail, and box the compass, but had a fairly good knowledge of plain sailing.

When autumn clothed the far-off moors and hills in purple and crimson, a grand picnic was arranged.

Pandoo was the caterer. A great waggon was specially chartered for the occasion. Mrs. Stuart and Parson Grahame both were among the passengers, and so away and away they drove up hills and down dells, but especially up, till high above the ocean they found themselves among scenery as charming, as one can find anywhere in the south of Merrie England.

Lonesome enough, though!

Great birds that the children had never seen before sailed round and round in the air, uttering strange, wild screams; others sat on stones and rocks, eyeing the intruders with curiosity.

But there were beautiful gulls as well.

“I wonder,” said Antonio, “if these are any of my windmill friends? Sit still, dearies, and I will soon find out.”

He had brought the wings with him. And now he filled his pocket with biscuit and pie crust, and walking some distance off, sat down on a stone.

He uttered his peculiar cry, and waved the wings.

Tack and half tack, nearer and nearer came the lovely gulls, some black-headed, some black-backed, some nearly white.

At last they alighted around him, ay, and on him. They fed from his hand, and one bolder than the rest actually took crumbs from his mouth.

“Mrs. Stuart,” said Parson Grahame, “that is a truly wonderful man. Do you know that I am sometimes actually afraid of him? Especially does that uncanny eye of his make my flesh creep at times, when it fixes me. And I dare not run away.”

“I like him,” said Mrs. Stuart, with a quiet smile.

“Well, I am glad; I must say that his conversation is very delightful. He is quite a savant, and he is also a hypnotist.”

Back came Antonio. His birds had been kissed and blest, and had flown away.

Then at Mrs. Stuart’s request, backed up by the voices of the happy children, Antonio produced his guitar, and never did he play more sweetly—sometimes sadly even to pathos—nor sing more clearly.

His voice and the breaking music of the sad guitar died away in softest cadence at last, and for a few seconds no one spoke, so full were their hearts. When they did speak, it was only to say, “Oh, thank you, captain, thank you.”

But Antonio knew children well, and knew therefore that very sad music hardly accorded with their hearts.

So he seized the guitar once again.

“Dance, dearies, dance,” he cried merrily, as he struck up a beautiful Italian waltz.

It was a charming and delightful sight to see those children dancing in their gleefulness on the smooth green sward. Davie Drake chose Phœbe for his partner, and Barclay had little Teenie.

But Pandoo went gallantly to Maud’s rescue, and so the dancing was kept up, until the bairns were fain to throw themselves on the sward through sheer fatigue.

Then Antonio stowed away the guitar, and shortly after this, and just as the sun began to wester, preparations for the return voyage, as Antonio called it, were made and completed.

But even as they came down the long hill that leads into Fisherton the weird wee man played and sang again, and Maud and Phœbe joined in with their sweet, though childish treble.

Everybody admitted to-night and for many a day afterwards that they had never enjoyed so delightful an outing.

. . . . . .

And now the weather began to get dull and gloomy. The clouds every day banked high above the horizon, and arched the very heavens with their grey-black rolling cumulus. As far as could be seen southwards the ocean was dull and troubled. The sea-birds screamed their loudest, and, caught by the wind at times while high in air, appeared to be whirled away at its mercy, and nolens volens.

Winter was coming on apace!

But the boys appeared regularly every day notwithstanding, and often Antonio took them far to sea, even when it was blowing half a gale.

He told the lads that he wished them to become real sailors, and not feather-bed, long-shore chaps, who didn’t know how to handle even a dinghy in a puff of wind.

By this time Davie Drake himself had found his sea-legs, and Antonio was pleased, not only with his general knowledge of seamanship, but of navigation as well.

Davie went home every night; Barclay of course remained with his captain, and slept in his little bedroom, high aloft above the beautifully furnished drawing-room.

Sometimes—just when she thought of it—bare-headed, bare-footed little Teenie came toddling over to the windmill.

“Just to hear Mr. ’Tonio sing—sing and play,” she explained.

And ’Tonio, as she always called him, never disappointed her.

Then Barclay himself would take her home. She refused point-blank to have the escort of Davie Drake, though she was far indeed from disliking the boy.

“I likes you, Davie,” she would say, slipping one wee hand softly into Barclay’s, “but I loves Barclay.”

This was spoken with all the innocence and frankness of childhood.

But it was no wonder that these children loved each other so well; were they not constantly together? And there was a third little person always with them. This was poor Muffie. She had not the slightest fear of dogs of her own size, and if they were saucy, she had a quick and simple method of putting them to rout. Up went her hair from crown to tail; for just a moment she did an attitude that was certainly more determined than graceful.

Then if the doggie did not at once beat a retreat, she struck out straight from the shoulder, and ten to one the enemy ran off howling with a breaking heart and a bleeding eye.

But if a collie or retriever appeared she sprang at once into Barclay’s arms, and spat defiance at the foe from this safe encampment.

. . . . . .

The hermit of the old windmill did not mind the advance of winter; the stormier seas, the moan and the sough of the wilder winds, the shrieks of the birds—all seemed to appeal to his soul, and he might have said with Burns:

Captain Antonio seemed to have completed his studies in electricity. Week after week huge strange-shaped parcels had been brought to him from the distant railway station, and busy indeed had been his hammer, his chisel, and many strange tools that the boys who assisted him did not even know the names of.

But in one huge parcel Barclay marvelled to see two complete suits of diver’s dresses and armour.

There was some mystery in this, which Antonio promised he would explain when they were once well out to sea.

Another mystery was a kind of diving-box; almost, if not quite, as large was this as the lifts used at hotels.

The weird little man had taken infinite pains with this. It was not round, but square, with a kind of cutwater roof, which would enable it to rise at once to the surface of the water. Through the bottom ran a rope, to which ballast could be attached in sinking this curious house. The aperture was water-tight. When it was desired to ascend, the rope, which was very long, and belayed inside, could be let go. The house would then speedily ascend, and the ballast could be hauled up afterwards.

I may add that the whole apparatus was detachable for packing. It was caulked, as it were, with indiarubber, and could be so firmly screwed together, that not a drop of water could find its way inside.

Air could be pumped in from above. True, but Antonio did not depend wholly upon this, for he possessed the means of generating oxygen, so that two people might live comfortably at the sea-bottom for many hours at a time.

Finally, the whole was lit up with electricity. On one side was a search-light of enormous power, and this side was a solid sheet of the thickest glass.

. . . . . .

The winter passed away, and sweet spring began to paint the ground with the greenery of grass, and the many and varied colours of beautiful wild-flowers.

Barclay was not sorry, for often in the dreary winter nights he used to lie in his little bed, finding it impossible to sleep while the storm-winds howled and “howthered” around his strange dwelling, and often shook it to its very foundations.

Barclay was a trifle superstitious, and the most appalling noises used to be heard aloft—shrieks and groans and moans.

He could not explain the nature of them. It might really be ghosts, he thought, and trembled a little. But on calmer nights nothing was heard except the mournful cry of the great white owl, who had not given up her abode, seeming to have perfect confidence in Antonio as well as in Barclay Stuart.

One fine day, when the buds were green on the trees, and bird-song was heard in every bush, Antonio told Barclay that he was going on a little cruise as far as London, and that he might not be back for a day or two.

The old windmill was locked up therefore, and for a whole week nothing was heard of the mysterious and weird little captain.

But behold one fine morning——

No, on second thoughts, I’ll tell you what did happen in next chapter.

CHAPTER IX

“THE MORN WAS FAIR, THE SKY WAS CLEAR, NO BREATH CAME O’ER THE SEA”

But, pray, do not mistake me. They were not lads of the guttersnipe class, who find nests but to rob them. Both had good mothers, who had taught them that God loves His song-birds, ay, even to the bickering sparrow, “not one of which shall fall to the ground without the Father,” that is, unless He permits it.

But there were nests of all kinds in every bush and tree: the linnet in the golden-scented furze—ah! how sweet and tender his song; the blackbird in the hedge; the cosy wee wren’s nest, perhaps in the cleft of some hollow tree; the dove in the thickets of spruce, who purred all day long like a cat; the loud lilting mavis with her greenish blue and black-spotted eggs; the chaffinch’s nest, the prettiest in the world in a notch in the lichen-covered larch; the hedge-sparrow’s, with eggs of sweetest blue. Oh, but I could not mention half the nests they visited this morning.

But some, such as those of the chattering magpie and the hawk, were high up in old pine trees, so that—